Holiday Healing
by TwistedSky
Summary: Holiday fic with Michael and Nikita. Michael ends up shot, and Nikita ends up playing nursemaid. Mikita.


Inspired by a twitterpeep. I disclaim. Set post-1x09, around the holiday season. This is awesomely my fortieth fanfic posted. I'm very excited about this. *bounces* I hope you like it!

XXXXXX

Nikita stared down at Michael and sighed. What was she going to do with him?

This was not the way she wanted to spend the week before Christmas. Sure, she didn't have anyone to spend her holiday with, but she'd intended to cuddle up comfortably and watch childish cartoons . . . something she'd gotten into the habit of doing.

Thankfully, Division liked to take a bit of a break during the holidays—her pet theory was that Percy was afraid of snow. He was not a creature of the cold, for all that he seemed heartless and rigid himself. So Nikita would monitor Division, but mostly she would just relax.

She needed the break, desperately. The loneliness, the stress, the tension with Michael . . . it took a toll on her.

Somehow though, Michael had gotten himself shot. Nikita had been shocked when Alex had called, demanding extraction. Nikita had shown up, looked at him and demanded an explanation. "What happened?"

"Percy shot him." It was all Alex said, but it was enough.

Nikita had deemed it safe enough for Alex to return to Division—even though she hadn't wanted to send her back—because Percy didn't know what Alex knew, and had seemed to want to use her.

So instead, Nikita was taking care of Michael, wondering where it all went wrong.

XXXX

—Earlier that night—

Michael knew this was not going to end well.

He knew.

He'd chosen to go against Percy's orders in order to hunt down Kasim and kill him.

Honestly though, what was he supposed to do?

The man had come into the US, and was residing in the same _state_ as Michael. He had to have expected that this would happen.

When Michael found out, he'd told Percy his plan. Percy had looked at him, almost as if he were disappointed. "You can't."

Michael had looked at his "mentor" . . . not really surprised. "I have to."

"Michael, I—we need him. It's a matter of national security. I'm sorry. After we're done with him, I'll make sure—"

"That's not good enough," Michael had said.

"It has to be." Percy had turned away at that, seemingly done with the topic.

Michael hadn't been.

Michael, at that, had realized that it was time to take things into his own hands.

Percy, recognizing the danger in letting Michael be by himself, had suggested that—just for "safety" purposes, he take a recruit with him whenever he left Division. Human shield, Michael had assumed, and just loyal enough to Division to stop Michael from doing anything Percy didn't want him to do.

In the end, Michael realized that Percy just wanted someone as a witness to make sure that he didn't lose support among the recruits after Michael's death.

It had surprised Michael when Percy had chosen Alex, but then he realized that Percy realized that everyone knew that he had a soft spot for Alex. And, well, he did. She was around the same age as his little girl would have been by now . . . and there was a vulnerability in her that called to him. He'd taken on a brotherly role with her, so Percy had chosen well. Alex would be the last person that anyone would expect to cover up something fishy.

Michael had managed to leave Alex off on the sidelines while he hunted for Kasim.

He'd found him, just sitting there, his back to Michael.

Michael pointed his gun at him, ready. "Kasim—" Michael was not a coward, he would do this to his face. Kasim turned around quickly, reaching for his own gun, when Michael shot him—right through the head.

Michael watched as Kasim dropped to the floor. It was over. Michael wanted to sink to the floor himself.

_It was over._

Michael felt a dozen intense emotions run through him.

Relief, however, was the strongest of those emotions.

He just felt . . . relieved.

He didn't feel it for long, because at that moment Percy walked in. "Michael," Percy sighed. "I didn't want this to happen."

Michael hadn't turned around at that, he was too stuck in his own pool of emotions.

But moments later when he felt Percy shoot him, he fell to the ground._ Percy always had been a terrible shot. _He heard Percy call out for Alex, and realized that he intended to use her as a witness. Michael watched as Percy put his own gun into Kasim's hands and turn around to face a breathless Alex.

"Michael's been shot. He's going to die. There's nothing we can do."

Alex just stared at him in shock, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

With that Percy had walked out, "You can wait with him until I get someone out here to clear out the bodies."

"I can handle it." Alex had said firmly.

Percy had raised an eyebrow at that, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Alex had kneeled next to Michael, cupping his chin with her hand.

Percy had nodded to himself at that, leaving the mess to her.

At that point Michael had passed out, and the last thing he remembered was Alex reaching for a phone and dialing a number quickly.

XXXX

Nikita looked at Michael and pinched the bridge of her nose. She couldn't take him to a hospital, obviously. And being out in the cold, and having to suffer through an hour drive? Not so great for his health.

He was feverish, sweating, and she was trying to ease his pain in every way she could.

She realized that this changed things.

Michael couldn't go back—because now he needed to be dead. At least until Nikita took down Division. Unless he wanted to join in with her, of course, which she sincerely doubted. He was still furious with her for not letting him complete his suicide mission to kill Kasim.

She'd done it because she honestly could no longer imagine a world without Michael in it. She—she couldn't live in a world like that.

And now, Kasim was dead, and Michael was pretty close to being dead himself. Nikita fixed his bandage, wincing as Michael groaned in pain.

She loved him, weirdly enough. It was a strange sort of love—transcendent. It was beyond simple loyalties, beyond circumstance, beyond any love she'd felt before. A love that was just different, in every way possible.

And she could not, _would not_ let him die.

XXXX

Michael felt himself going in and out of consciousness. He felt like he was beyond that though, like he was just part of a really long dream that was going to end with him dying. Because he had to die, right?

Sometimes he swore he heard Nikita's voice, and he knew _that _didn't make sense.

Right?

He couldn't hold a thought in his mind for very long though, so he didn't get much further than that.

He had weirdly vivid dreams . . . and nightmares.

The death of his wife and daughter seemed to replay, over and over again in his head.

He could hear screaming in his head—his own, he realized.

He felt a weird montage moment replaying in his head—family, his parents, Percy, various recruits he'd met over the years . . . and Nikita.

Nikita. She was part of who he was.

He'd resented her for not letting him kill Kasim, but that was irrelevant.

Kasim was dead.

But he was still in Michael's nightmares—his words playing over and over, images of him, including the moment when Michael ended his life, just playing and playing and . . . it would have driven Michael crazy, had it not all been a product of his circumstance.

Eventually his thoughts began to calm down, and he rather felt like he was floating.

He saw her. His wife. He imagined strange colors, and a beautiful garden, everything was so strange—like he was hyped up on drugs, and was merely imagining things.

But it felt real, or as real as it could be.

"Elizabeth?"

She smiled, "Who does it look like?"

"Am I—"

"Dead?" she asked. "No, at least not yet."

Michael moved closer, almost afraid, but he couldn't help himself. He hugged her close to himself, sighing in relief when she didn't disappear. "I missed you."

He felt her sigh, "I need you to let go."

"Of what?" He felt guilt. He should have been a better husband, he should have been a better father, he should have protected them. He shouldn't have let himself get attached to Nikita. He shouldn't have—his thoughts were interrupted by Elizabeth gently shushing him.

Elizabeth pulled back, "It's been so long. And you've finally killed Kasim, it's over."

"It's—"

"It's over, my love." Elizabeth lifted her hand, stroking his cheek. He closed his eyes and pushed his cheek into her hand.

"I miss you."

"I know. But—It's been way too long. You need to let go. If you forget us, I'll have to haunt your dreams," Elizabeth smiled, looking into his eyes, her own twinkling. "But you have to move on."

"I don't want to."

Elizabeth's smile seemed to sadden, "You do. And it's right there." She moved her hand, tracing her way down to where his heart was. "Let her finish healing you."

"I love you," Michael said, almost pleadingly.

"I know. But you love her too."

"I can't."

"But you do."

Michael just stood, with Elizabeth's hand over his heart, until he felt a warmth. "Is this real?"

"It's as real as you believe it is." Elizabeth sighed, "If this were completely in your head as a way to justify going after what you want, then I wouldn't point it out, would I?"

"You might." Michael smiled.

Elizabeth smiled back at him, "I might," she leaned in, kissing him on the cheek. "But you can choose to ignore me."

"Elizabeth, I—" Michael felt her pulling away from him—until he realized that he was pulling away from her, and he suddenly woke up, gasping for air.

XXXX

Nikita realized a change in Michael's breathing and ran over, then saw that he'd woken up. "Michael. You're awake."

Michael looked at her in surprise, feeling incredibly weak. "You have a talent for stating the obvious, Nikita."

Nikita smiled, sitting down next to the cot he was lying on. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling well enough to mock me."

"I wasn't mocking, just stating fact," Michael coughed at that.

Nikita worried at that, trying to help him calm down, "Okay, no more attempts to make yourself laugh to death, funny guy. Lie back down. You've been through a lot in the past few days."

"Days?" Michael asked in shock.

"Yes, days. You were out. I was afraid you wouldn't come back to me."

Michael thought about that. "Nikita—"

"Yes?"

"You and I have a complicated . . . relationship, but I can tell you with utmost surety that if I ever attempted to die, you'd somehow find a way to bring me back just so that you can kill me yourself."

Nikita smiled slightly at that, "True."

Michael looked around at his surroundings. "How did I get here?"

"I brought you here," Nikita replied simply.

"I got that. But—" Michael tried to think straight. "Alex?"

Nikita sighed, "Yes." She hesitated, "Michael, you do realize you can't go back?"

He replied, without emotion, "I know. I don't want to anyway."

Nikita's smile brightened at that. "Why don't we focus on getting you well, and then we—you can figure out what comes next?"

"I think that's a good plan." Michael looked at the screen that was in front of him. "What is that?"

Nikita hesitated, "I was watching Christmas cartoons."

"Like the way we did," he stated simply.

"Yes."

"Well, turn them back on."

Nikita reached out for the remote and pushed play, setting it back down on the table next to her chair.

She leaned back. As she watched Charlie Brown sadden over a tree, she felt Michael's hand envelop hers, squeezing for comfort.

She squeezed back and smiled.

XXXX

—A few years ago—

It was Christmas.

Nikita felt pretty awful. Everyone around her seemed full of joy and cheer—as if they were just happy to be alive and celebrating, but she wasn't.

She heard a knock at the door, and was slightly surprised to see Michael. "What are you doing here?"

Michael smiled. "I'm going to rescue you from this horribly maudlin mood."

Nikita had lifted an eyebrow at that, "Really?"

He'd nodded, motioning for her to follow him. He'd taken her to a seemingly abandoned room, equipped with a TV, and a comfy little setup. He'd turned on the TV. "Charlie Brown's Christmas, it's a classic."

Nikita had placed her hand over his at that point, remembering what he'd told her of his daughter, "I'm sorry. This must be a hard time of year for you—"

Michael seemed to let his pain catch up with him all at once at that moment, "Nikita, not now."

Nikita had dropped to the ground onto a pile of pillows at that point, ready to play into whatever version of reality Michael wanted to pretend existed. He'd sat next to her, staying comfortably distant. "Don't tell any of the other recruits about this. And Percy would have a field day."

"Thank you," she'd said softly. "For trying to cheer me up."

"It's my job."

Michael and Nikita had just sat there after that, watching the screen.

Near the end of Frosty the Snowman, Michael realized that while it had started out as a way to comfort her, it had ended up comforting him too.

And so had begun a tradition of sorts—one they carried out alone more often than together.

XXXX

Michael sighed. He opened his eyes to darkness, and it took him some time to adjust.

This felt strange—because . . . well, it just felt strange.

He shouldn't have been in Nikita's hideout recovering from a bullet wound which Percy had tried to killed with. He shouldn't have fallen in love with Nikita—and he shouldn't have wanted to tell her that.

Because things were just too complicated, and he had no idea what he wanted to do next.

Though he rather wanted to kill Percy. Painfully, because Michael's shoulder _hurt_ like hell.

But beyond that, he couldn't imagine a future. He couldn't imagine life after Division, he couldn't imagine what he'd do.

Then he wondered what Nikita's intentions were. He turned to the side, to see her sleeping in the chair she'd been sitting in before. That had to be uncomfortable, but he knew she'd dealt with worse.

He watched her sleep.

_Damn, she was beautiful._

And that was a terrible thought—but Michael was beginning to wonder if imaginary Elizabeth didn't have a point.

His heart, while it hurt, seemed to be healing.

And it belonged to Nikita as fiercely—maybe even more so—as it had to Elizabeth.

Michael shook himself free of that thought, only to fall back asleep.

He could worry about that later.

XXXX

Nikita laughed. She'd forgotten how great it was just to . . . _be. _ She'd been lonely for so long, which was hard after spending so much time with Alex. She missed being around people.  
And she loved being around Michael. Simply put, it was nice.

But then things took a more serious turn when Michael asked her suddenly, "What happens when it's over?"

Nikita thought carefully, "When I . . . take down Division?" Michael nodded. "I try not to think about it. I don't really think I'll survive long enough to worry about it."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"But what if you do? Survive, that is."

"I suppose I'll just . . . live."

Michael sighed, obviously dissatisfied with her answer.

"Why do you ask?" Nikita asked before taking a bite of her cantaloupe.

"I'm trying to figure out what comes next," he admitted.

Nikita felt her throat close up, and her heart squeeze. Because, obviously, he had to leave eventually.

Michael seemed unaware of her inner turmoil, so he continued on. "Because we're going to take them down. And we're going to live to gloat about it."

Nikita raised an eyebrow at that, "We?"

"Yes, _we._ What, did you think I was going to let you have all the satisfaction of wiping the smirk off Percy's face?"

Nikita smiled, and squeezed his hand. "I'm glad."

XXXX

Michael stood, staring out of the window at the snow.

"It's New Year's Eve. It always surprises me." Nikita came up behind him.

Michael turned to her, moving fairly comfortably with his cast. "It comes every year, you'd think you'd get over the shock."

"It's the holidays themselves," Nikita continued, ignoring his sarcasm. "I forget that the world just keeps going. Every year I make the same New Year's Resolution."

"I remember," Michael smiled.

Nikita sighed, "It's already almost twelve."

"Is it?"

Nikita looked down at her watch. "11:59."

"I think I owe you a kiss then." Michael moved quickly, kissing her softly on the cheek.

Nikita felt her cheek warm in response to his lips.

_Heat, heat, everywhere._ "And I think after that, you still owe me a kiss," Nikita glanced down, "Midnight," and stepped forward, kissing him on the lips.

She felt herself melt slightly, but then she pulled back. "And now you don't."

Michael just stared at her as she walked off. "Nikita," he ran after her. "What's wrong?"

Nikita turned to her, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Nothing."

"Nikita—"

"It's hard, Michael. It's . . . comforting to have you here, and to know that we aren't going to eventually kill each other, but . . . it's hard."

"Nikita, I know," he leaned his forehead against hers. "I know."

"I love you."

"I know."

Nikita laughed at that. "Obviously."

"Nikita, you know how I feel. But . . . not now. We can't start something unless we can finish it."

Nikita breathed deeply. "You're right. Of course you're right."

Michael smiled sadly, "It's extra incentive to stay alive."

"I know."

Michael took Nikita's hand in his and led her back to the window. "Just watch the snow."

It was comforting.

XXXXX

There's a sequel to this that should be up in the next few days-posted separately because the plot is kinda unrelated, but still sort of related . . . it's complicated. Anyways, review?


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